


Nature and Nurture

by Inspectre



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:52:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inspectre/pseuds/Inspectre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel, Jehan, an attempted mugging, some knuckle bandaging, and a good dash of hair stroking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nature and Nurture

**Author's Note:**

> For deHavilland as a pick-me-up.  
> And because I've been promising forever to write my first Les Mis fic.

Bahorel dispatched the last of the would-be muggers with a well-placed right hook. Shaking the residual force out of his fists, he watched as the small group of robbers scrambled to their feet and ran off into the night in search of easier prey.

“You saved me!” 

He’d told Jehan to stay back and out of the way, knowing that the relative newcomer to Paris was not the sort to get into brawls very often, but the young poet lunged forward now the danger was past and threw himself gratefully around Bahorel’s broad shoulders, before withdrawing in surprise.

“You’re bleeding!” he squeaked, staring down at knuckles sporting several nasty gashes.

“The one in the hat had a knife. Grazed me up a bit.” No wonder their assailants had felt confident in trying to corner two men. But they’d evidently not been expecting a mark who was quite so scrappy.

Seeing his young companion’s shocked expression, Bahorel tried to reassure him “It’s alright Jehan, it’s not serious. Besides, it matches the colour of my waistcoat” he joked.

“Come up to my apartment! I have some bandages! I’ll get you fixed up!” Prouvaire asserted, eagerly pulling at his elbow.

“Why do you have bandages? Have your plants been sticking their thorns into you for reading them too much Juvenal?” Bleeding or not, Bahorel was unable to resist a good-natured little jibe at his friend’s quirks, finding entertainment in the delicate blushes that were so quick to arise in return.

“Joly left some from his medical bag one time Bossuet hurt his ankle near here. They brought him to mine to strap him up since it was closest and there are not too many stairs. I kept meaning to return them to him, but I suppose it’s probably a little late by now”.

Jehan’s apartment was indeed not far, and Bahorel was soon sitting in the chair at his desk while the younger man fussed about him.

“I know I had some water left over from this morning…Aha!” he exclaimed, finding the pitcher that had been brought up by his landlady first thing that day. Using the water to wet a clean rag he had found, Prouvaire began to dab at his friend’s hands and clean off the blood that was already starting to dry on his fingers. When he moved on to the knuckles where the deeper gashes were, Bahorel manfully tried to swallow the hissing that accompanied the stinging sensation. Then, Jehan was reaching for the long strips of bandages he produced from a desk drawer and winding them tightly around his knuckles.

“Can you still wiggle your fingers?” he asked, checking that he wasn’t restricting the blood supply too much. “I don’t want your fingers turning blue or anything!”

Bahorel stretched his fingers out and wriggled them around, before checking he could still form a fist. He wasn’t going to let something like a bandage get in the way of any potentially violent fun after all.

“Now you must sit and rest a while. That’s what you’re supposed to do if you lose blood. I think I heard Combeferre say so once anyway”.

It was quite endearingly amusing to let the little poet, the youngest of their group, order the brawny and pugnacious brawler around so. Figuring that it was rather late at night to be sauntering back to his own apartment, Bahorel kicked off his boots and sprawled out on the bed, making himself right at home. Jehan perched beside his friend’s larger frame, a well-thumbed book of poetry grabbed from the nightstand.

Soon, Bahorel found his eyes closing.

He was teetering on the edge of sleep, when he felt fingers lightly moving through his tufty hair, gently fondling smooth lines and circles.

“What are you doing little Prouvaire?” he asked, careful to keep his tone amused rather than censorious.

“Maman always used to stroke my hair whenever I was hurt. It’ll help you relax.” the reply came in a matter of fact manner, unrepentant and evidently not expecting to be argued with further.

Bahorel grinned and relaxed once more, allowing him to continue. Jehan would adopt every stray kitten he found, name them after some classical poet or mythological figure, and then be unashamed of weeping when one of them did not return. A definite nurturing instinct. Bahorel didn’t mind indulging it for now. After all, Jehan had given him an excuse to indulge his own belligerent nature by providing him with a fight, so he was definitely owed some reward for that. 

And besides, this hair stroking was really quite nice.


End file.
